


Amor ch'a nulla amato amar perdona

by endofthe___pal



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Canon Era, Declarations Of Love, Fluff and Angst, Inferno (La Divina Commedia | The Divine Comedy - Dante Alighieri), Love Confessions, M/M, Pre-Canon, Secret Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-17
Updated: 2020-10-17
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:34:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 540
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27070546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/endofthe___pal/pseuds/endofthe___pal
Summary: Love has conducted us unto one death;Caina waieth him who quenched our life~Here in this room, they're gonna live forever.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Kudos: 14





	Amor ch'a nulla amato amar perdona

**Author's Note:**

> Hello!   
> So, this is my first (and very self indulgent) fic, so I beg you to not be too harsh. This came up to me after handing in my test on the first 10 chapters on the Divine Comedy, and I'm sure my teacher would fail me if she knew that I wrote it. I apologize in advance.  
> Also, english is not my first language, feel free to correct me!

Grantaire looks peaceful like this, lying in the paint stained sheets of his bed, staring at him with half-lidded eyes: his belligerant nature is sated, exhausted by their ferocious passion, and the fight left his body. He’s watching silently as Enjorlas caresses his lips with a gentle finger, afraid of breaking the spell of this idilliac moment. Enjorlas is sure he’s never seen him like this: even in their love making he’s always clashing against him, antagonizing and yearning at the same time, but this is not one of the nights spent to keep each other satisfied.  
“I won’t resent you if you’re not there tomorrow”  
Grantaire shifts slightly, putting his arm under his head  
“But I will”  
They stay silent, after that. Enjorlas looks around him, takes the small room in: messy, dirty and smelly. Books are thrown everywhere, the floor and the walls are stained by red wine and the room, that has only a little window, reeks of the liquid the artist uses to clean the oil paints from his precious brushes, which sit in jars and glasses on the wobbly table. Canvases, both blank and filled, sit in the far corner, leaning against the wall. Enjorlas often finds himself amazed by them: he’s never seen Grantaire paint. There are times when he dreams about him and wonders: does he hurry through the process, taken by inspiration or does he take his time, careful and precise? He imagines him almost stabbing the canvas, throwing colors on it with rage, but then corrects himself: Grantaire is not like that, not when he’s alone and has nothing to prove, so he sees him with a gentle grip, his wrist twisting with grace, leading a thin brush that leaves delicate strokes behind. At the musain he’s the drunkard who argues for the simple pleasure or arguing, but when they’re in this room and Enjorlas lets himself forget about Patria, he become soft, warm in his arms.   
He picks up a book, the nearest. The Divine Comedy.  
“I haven’t read this one. Do you like it?”  
Grantaire sits up and leans against his chest, taking his hand.  
Never leaving his eyes, he recites:

Love, that on gentle heart doth swiftly seize,  
Seized this man for the person beautiful  
That was ta’en from me, and still the mode offends me.

Love, that exempts no one beloved from loving,   
Seized me with pleasure of this man so strongly,   
That, as thou seest, it doth not yet desert me;

Love has conducted us unto one death;  
Caina waieth him who quenched our life 

And suddenly, Enjorlas feels like he can’t breathe. His heart is soaring and Grantaire is beautiful; they never talked of love, not aloud, and now he’s speaking of feelings that go beyond life. The drunkard leans closer, caresses his lips against the rosy ones of the revolutionary.

One day we reading were for our delight  
Of Lancelot, how love did him enthrall.  
Alone we were and without any fear.

A kiss, soft and loving

Kissed me upon the mouth all palpitating.  
Galeotto was the book and he who wrote it.  
That day no farther did we read therein.

They don’t think of tomorrow. Here in this room, they're gonna live forever.


End file.
